Her heart pounded as she pointed the light inside the circular stone structure, but thankfully, she saw nothing in its depths. She knelt close to the base of the well and circled it, moving the flashlight up and down the wall as she went. She found nothing. Holden kicked a pile of cane trash around, shifting it with the tip of his shoe when he suddenly said, “Look here.”
He kneeled and fished a sodden scrap of newspaper from the pile with a broken twig. It was the size of a saucer and had been crudely torn off a larger sheet. Eileen took it off the stick.
Holden shook his head at her. “You should be wearing gloves, you know. We learned at mortician school that gloves have been standard crime scene issue since Emily Kaye was murdered in Britain in 1924.”
Eileen raised her eyebrows at him. “We didn’t come here to picnic; why didn’t you bring some?”
Holden shrugged, a sheepish look on his face. “I didn’t think we’d find anything.”
Eileen shook off the excess flecks of mud and leaves before she held up the paper and spotted the flashlight on it. In the upper right corner was an ad almost identical to the one she had found with Anna’s belongings except this one was seeking a receptionist. It listed a different telephone number and the date on the newspaper was almost two weeks earlier. Holden stood behind her and read over her shoulder. He exhaled loudly and said, “This is odd; the number is different and so is the job description.” To further complicate matters, the number’s prefix indicated that it was in an entirely different part of the island to the original phone number. Her blood ran cold as she looked at him. Was it was possible that more than one killer was at play?
They got back in the car and sat in silence, both of them wearing worried expressions on their faces. Holden’s mouth was pressed in a grim line as he stared into the darkness. Eileen stared through the windshield, considering how easily she may have come into contact with a murderer during her first week on the job.
“I could have been one of these girls,” she said softly.
Holden turned to look at her, his face questioning.
Her chin trembled as she said, “I saw an ad the day after you made me dig the grave.” Tears welled up in her eyes and spilt over her lashes and down her cheeks. “I was going to call.”
Holden clenched his jaw in anger. “What if something had happened to you?”
The tears came faster as Eileen’s heart rate sped up and she said, “But I didn’t realize a murderer was running ads.”
Holden was flabbergasted. “I thought you liked being at the funeral home.”
“Being there?” Eileen was flustered. “It’s not a hobby, it’s minimum wage work. It’s fine for now…but I don’t want to work there forever.”
He went quiet then, his face pained as though she had hit him.
She wasn’t sure why but the look on his face only made Eileen cry more.
* * *
HOLDEN BARELY SLEPT THAT NIGHT. After Eileen had dropped him off, he flipped through magazines, wandered the corridors and eventually ended up in bed watching shadows move across the ceiling. He didn’t care for the uneasiness that coursed through him whenever Eileen was around, the subtle anxiety that ground away at his nerves as he wondered if she knew how he felt about her. It was times like these when he missed his father most. Holden had done his best with the business, avoiding foreclosure despite Paul’s fiscal ineptitude, but he was out of his depth in figuring out how to manage his affection for an employee.
Holden thought back to the night he met Eileen, remembering her cheeky responses for everything he said. He sighed, finally admitting to himself that from the time he laid eyes on her, he knew he was attracted to her. If he could turn back time, he would have told her that the post had been filled, but perhaps they could go out for a nice meal instead. It would have been far less gut-wrenching than seeing her almost every day and missing her every night.
Holden had hoped she would find the job too macabre, too daunting and eventually resign. In his dreams, he imagined Eileen winking at him before suggesting that he take her out for dinner. Then, their romance would begin. He imagined her teasing him about it in later years, chuckling with mild deference as Eileen served tea on the great house’s wide verandah.
He cursed under his breath. Instead of fulfilling his fantasy of spending his life with Eileen, his antics had nearly driven her straight to the edge of a mad man’s knife. All because he didn’t want Clifford to believe Eileen was getting special treatment. He hadn’t planned to make Eileen dig the graves, but Clifford had shown up with the shovels that night and Holden was too embarrassed to admit that he didn’t want to make her do it.
It had irked him to make her undertake such laborious work, but he sometimes felt like Clifford was watching him in his father’s stead. Many times, that feeling of perpetual supervision caused him to overcompensate, overriding knee-jerk reactions in favour of sound business principles. Mostly, it augured well. But not with Eileen.
Holden regarded Clifford as an uncle and he felt a distinct shame at the thought of the older man realizing that he was attracted to Eileen. Holden sighed and rubbed his eyes, telling himself that daylight would bring the answers he so desperately needed.
* * *
HOLDEN WALKED TO THE PARLOUR early the next morning, intent on putting his restless mind to good use instead of roaming the halls of the great house like a forlorn ghost. It was just after seven when he let himself into the building which meant he’d have a whole hour to do the book-keeping before everyone arrived. He pulled out his ledgers and balanced the columns, writing neatly on the lined pages. He always found book-keeping to be calming and stable; there was no grey area; things were either an expense or income. Less than an hour later, he heard the key turning in the lock.
“Morning, boss. Why you in so early?” Clifford asked as he traipsed into the kitchen to start the kettle.
“Morning. I’m catching up on some book-keeping,” replied Holden distractedly as he transcribed figures from a stack of bills into the ledger.
Clifford came out of the kitchen and sat on the edge of Holden’s desk. “Ain’t see you come in this early since business was slow.”
Holden stopped short and looked up at Clifford. “Meaning?”
“That I know you since you were a little sprat. You work late when you got things to do; you come in early when something’s bothering you.”
Holden turned back to his ledgers and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Nothing is bothering me.”
Clifford rubbed his chin. “That probably means it’s about Eileen.”
Holden’s head snapped up with such force that Clifford broke out laughing.
“I got two eyes, young Davis. I can see that you got aspirations on her.”
The younger man dropped his head in his hands and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. “I’ve really stepped in it this time, Clifford. I can’t express my feelings for her without seeming like a letch."
“Yeah…you was better off hiring them cranky old women with the bunions.” Clifford shrugged. “Except for the fact that they used to turn off customers with them nasty attitudes and couldn’t do the work, them was alright.”
Holden glared at him. He wasn’t in the mood for sarcasm. “No need to rub it in.” He looked at Clifford, his eyes pleading. “Should I tell Eileen how I feel?”
Clifford stood up and clapped Holden on the shoulder. “Life is short. As your father used to say: a moment of discomfort or a lifetime of discontent.”
In spite of himself, a weak smile crept across Holden’s face. His father truly did have a saying for everything.
The phone rang and Holden let out a breath before he answered. It was Dr Thorpe calling them to collect a decedent whose autopsy was finished. The pathologist’s office was only five minutes away so by the time Clifford returned with the old lady’s remains, Eileen was walking through the front door and greeting them in her usual cheery tone. Holden knew it wouldn’t do to profess his feel
ings for Eileen over a corpse. He would talk to her later. For now, he’d keep it casual.
* * *
“I BET YOU WERE A PREFECT at school, weren’t you?”
They were attired in their usual white frocks in the chilly prep room, deftly handing each other tools and liquids without prompting as they worked. It had taken a few weeks, but they had developed a seamless preparation routine since the day Eileen had almost brought up her lunch on the spotless floor tiles. Now, instead of enquiries about embalming and requests to hand Holden a syringe, their conversations had become more casual.
Eileen grinned. “Of course I wasn’t. I’m too short and I always look like I’m up to no good. They only give badges to the tall, serious-looking children — like you. I imagine that’s the same reason the police force has a height requirement; it’s society’s way of saying that height means authority.”
Holden considered her theory as he pushed cotton inside Mrs Holmes’ mouth. “So they didn’t make me a prefect because of my roguish good looks?”
Eileen laughed. “Probably not.”
Holden tutted and sighed as though deeply affronted by this new knowledge. “My father's donation to the library fund probably helped to shore up my appointment as well, didn’t it?”
Eileen smiled benignly and raised a shoulder. They both knew it did.
“You know…” Holden said as he massaged Mrs Holmes’ face to set her features. “… back then, I really did believe that I was rewarded for following the rules.” He frowned. “Which makes no sense because Paul was head-boy.”
Eileen giggled and asked, “Was he brighter than you?”
Holden scoffed. “Brighter? Paul barely flickers.” He shook his head in amusement as Eileen broke down laughing. They were polar opposites in that way. Holden’s humour simmered below the surface while Eileen’s bubbled over.
She wiped tears from her eyes and said, “But if we’re being honest, life isn’t set up to be fair.”
Holden took a small sponge from Eileen as he replied, “You’re right. My father used to say, ‘Son, rule lovers get a pat on the head. Rule breakers get a pat on the back.’”
Eileen broke into another fit of giggles. It was hilarious the way Holden would drop the timbre of his already deep voice to mimic his father.
“What does that even mean?” she asked through giggly hiccups.
Holden’s gloved hands moved deftly, almost robotically as he started to embalm Mrs Holmes. He didn’t answer until he had finished the internal embalming. He never spoke while doing that part. When Eileen had first started working there, she thought he was ignoring her, but she soon realized that he always picked up their conversation as soon as he closed the veins. “Look at history: average citizens go to their graves as ‘nice people’. It’s the renegades and pioneers whose memories live forever.”
That was the thing Eileen liked best about Holden. The most gruesome day spent filling people’s veins with chemicals could turn into hours that were wiled away in laughter and wisdom. But she quickly sobered when his statement about average citizens triggered a thought she had the night before.
“About what I said last night…” she bit her lip. “It’s not that I don’t like working here. I appreciate having a stable job and I like learning from you and Clifford. But what you said just now about average people…it pretty much sums up how I feel about where my life is right now.”
“Meaning?”
“It’s my dream to do something creative, something that will transcend my lifetime and exist forever. Something that I’ll be known for.” Eileen opened her hands apologetically as she gestured at the equipment in the sterile room. “I can’t do that here.”
“You are quite good with the make-up and the floral arrangements.” He looked up at Eileen and said, “Far be it from me to stop you from your heart’s desires. You’re ambitious, even a daft person can see that.”
She reached for the stainless steel tray next to him. “Thank you,” she said as she started sterilizing the tools. “I’m glad you’re not offended.”
“No…why would I be? I don’t imagine that everyone desires to spend their lives surrounded by the dead.”
His face was a mixture of sadness and acceptance as he shrugged. "I understand."
Eileen had grown accustomed to working with Holden. Despite it not being her dream job, her stomach sank at the idea of never seeing him again.
Chapter 15
Dead Ends
Eileen’s life was in limbo. It had been three days since their trip to the cane ground and two days since Holden had handed over the evidence they had gathered to Derricks. Eileen had some measure of comfort in knowing she had done a good deed. But under that, clawing at the surface, were doubt and impatience.
To pass the time, Eileen tried calling both of the phone number on the ads, but eventually she gave up on the newer of the two when no-one answered after numerous calls. That was the problem with something as light as a piece of newspaper at an old crime scene. It could just blow into the middle of a place and be irrelevant. But she felt similarly frustrated with the older number; whether she called early or late in the day, no one answered. Eileen concluded that it couldn’t possibly belong to a business, forcing her to question her theory. Every day she checked the classifieds looking for similar ads. She even went back to the newspaper office and extended her archive search from seven to ten days before the other victims had disappeared. Her efforts were in vain.
She tried the phone company to no avail. The operator told her they could find the number attached to a name, but not a name attached to a number. By the end of the week, Eileen was at her wit's end. There was one other lead they hadn't fully fleshed out and despite Holden’s assertions that the killer might find out that she was asking questions, Eileen wanted to continue looking.
The Friday after their visit to Lord Town, Holden and Eileen stood in front of the Mutual Building, waiting for the Hampstead Village bus to arrive. The buses were quaint little things with bright colours and rustic appeal. Commuters sat on long wooden benches enclosed by wooden rails; the passengers often put Eileen in mind of circus attractions behind stout parallel bars whenever Eileen saw them. Buses were in high demand since so much of the populace didn't have cars which meant that seats were always at a premium. Two schoolboys ran past Eileen to grab the rails on the bus so they could squeeze between the bars and cobble a seat before the bus got to the depot. A policeman chased them with truncheons, landing stout whacks that left bright whales on brown legs and arms, but both Eileen and the police knew that efforts to discourage dangerous onboarding would be forgotten by the next day. Many of the boys did so in imitation of the conductors who were adept at navigating the slippery sideboards and fenders on the outskirts of the bus without ever once stepping inside the speeding omnibuses to collect fares. Neatly dressed in khaki uniforms, they hung off the sides, their sharp eyes seeing every passenger who hopped on. Shortly after, they’d shuffled along the sideboard with the leather pouch slung around their shoulder that jingled merrily with its cache of coins.
Soon, the Hampstead Village bus rounded the corner, trundling up the street until it pulled to a stop in front of the Mutual Building. As people disembarked, a man in a khaki shirt jac and matching pants hopped off the wheel flares and tipped his hat to them. He eyed Holden's three-piece suit and asked, “Wunna is the inspectors?”
Holden shook his head. “No. We came to ask you about Anna Brown. I’m Holden and this is Eileen. What’s your name?”
“Raymond.” The conductor nodded grimly. “I remember Anna. Nice girl who always looked sweet in her clothes.”
“Did she catch your bus the day she disappeared?” asked Eileen.
“Yeah, it’s the only bus on that route.” He looked Eileen in the eye. “But you should know that…it ain’t you that move into Anna’s old apartment?”
Eileen was surprised. “Well…yes. But I never met you.”
The conductor’s face colour
ed. “I like red women so I would always notice you. I’ve seen you in the neighbourhood.”
Holden cleared his throat. “So did Anna get off here on that day?”
“Nah,” said Raymond. “She got off by the post office and told me she had to catch another bus for a meeting on the west coast, so she had to hustle.”
“Who was she meeting?”
Raymond shook his head. “She never said. When she was found, I talked to the guys on the west coast route and asked if they had seen her. Don said she caught his bus and got off by the secondary school. When he didn’t see her again, he figured she came back to town on another bus.”
Holden raised an eyebrow. “So what happened to her after that?”
Raymond shrugged and said, “If I knew, I would tell you, but right now the bus is full so I gotta go.”
Raymond jumped onto the sideboard and tipped his hat to them again before the bus disappeared around the corner.
“So she did make it to town that day,” Eileen said, her mouth twisted with worry.
“Yes,” said Holden. “So she was abducted either before or after her interview.”
Eileen nodded. “The question is…who took her?”
* * *
EILEEN SPENT THE AFTERNOON making wreaths while Holden balanced the books. It was their second week dipping their toe into the floral arrangement business offering wreaths and bouquets for all occasions. Business had been robust and Holden smiled broadly when he saw the numbers. They’d done wreaths every day since they started, not to mention bouquets for guilty husbands who forgot birthdays and anniversaries and were their most frequent customers so far. As Eileen had predicted, their central location was a huge boon, a great place to get a last minute token of affection. It wasn’t lost on Holden that sometimes orders were upsized because of the pretty lady who prepared the bouquets. He wasn’t discounting her artful persuasion, but men were men, and they constantly tried to impress her by doubling their orders. He didn’t care for the extra attention they showered on Eileen, but she put her foot down after one man reduced his order to a single red rose when Holden tried to intervene. “Stop helping! I’m working on commission and you don’t have boobs”.
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